


Darkness Descends

by hystericalwomannovelist



Category: Dark Shadows (1966)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalwomannovelist/pseuds/hystericalwomannovelist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnabas was away in Bangor for the day and Julia was, much as she hated to admit it, palpably relieved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness Descends

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fairly early in my viewing of the show, yet set the action post-canon, so there are a lot of inconsistencies that I can't really fix now. A relatively long work for one chapter, but I felt like any breaks I could have inserted would have tipped my hand. ;)
> 
> Rereading it, I feel it is more a study in mannered punctuation than anything else.
> 
> Notes written at the time:
>
>> This is really just my way of getting out of my system everything I wish J&B would say to each other, and working through my own doubts about them. It is light on plot, just a day in Julia's head and memories. I'm tempted to say more by way of explaining myself, but I've written it hoping it will leave much room for the reader to balance the scales, and so I guess I'll leave you to it!
>> 
>> A couple necessary notes–
>> 
>> I haven't written out a love scene, but there is some content that speaks to a full relationship between two adults in love.
>> 
>> As you probably know, I have not seen the series in its entirety yet, so please forgive any inconsistencies or regard this as a PT story of some sort!
>> 
>> I've been listening to Laura Marling almost exclusively these days, and the title is borrowed from one of her many exquisite songs. A short epigraph from the song would fit the fic, too:
>> 
>> Well I wouldn't want to ruin something I couldn't save  
> The gap will keep us safe, the gap will keep us safe
>> 
>> My love, I treasure you
>> 
>> Too bright for me, darkness descends  
> Oh well I'm not well again and once more darkness it descends  
> The ground is falling under me  
> And I can't find the means to leave

Barnabas was away in Bangor for the day and Julia was, much as she hated to admit it, palpably relieved. For the last month––or more, perhaps; time seemed to have gotten away from her––they had not spent a whole day apart. These had been intense weeks of extreme highs and lows she had never expected. She was glad to have a quiet day to herself alone in the Old House, alone with her thoughts, alone to relax as she hadn't in––well, years, really.

Before he left, they had quarreled––she could hardly think what about, now. Something quite petty, and so unlike them. There had been a time when any small misstep would have sent him into a rage, but since the cure that had hardly been the case. He was much more likely to drift into a gloomy reverie now, and when he fell into those moods, she had learned when to leave him be and when to offer him comfort. Things had almost started to feel settled between them, easy, secure. But she had picked the fight that morning, hadn't she? It was so silly; she honestly couldn't remember. They parted on good terms, at least: she sensed he was always careful to do so, now. He seemed constantly aware of the fragility of things––life, feelings, the bonds between people. He could be difficult, still; maddening, brooding; but clearly he struggled to pull himself out of it, to put things right. Now she was being difficult, and he had indulged her. He kissed her forehead to quiet her, lightly, lingering. "Goodbye, my dear," he whispered. "I will see you tonight."

She shivered, tucking her legs under her and wrapping both hands around her cup of coffee, trying to shake it off. It was a shiver of mixed pleasure and revulsion––an unfamiliar, and strangely frightening sensation. She had recoiled––almost imperceptibly; she had searched his eyes, and he did not seem to recognize it––when he kissed her. Why, why would she? She was stubborn, and probably unwilling to relent in their strange argument; certainly he had been right, if she couldn't even remember the subject or her position, and she didn't want to admit it or give in. Barnabas was always trying to put things right; Julia, having only known mortality, and still believing despite all evidence that things would go on just as they always had done, found she was the one to hold a grudge.

But she would not. By the time he came home, she would be over it, and she would more than make it up to him. She knew well how long they had waited and how much they had endured to get to this place together; she would protect and nurture that despite the challenges they still faced, just as he did. Bangor, indeed, she laughed to herself, feeling herself love him a little more at the thought of it, a little inside joke, like so many things they shared that no one else would ever be privy to, good and bad. How many times had that been the excuse to those inquiring why Barnabas was never available in daytime, that he was off on business in Bangor? Now, free to live by day, he truly was in Bangor: and, so changed, he truly wanted to pursue a business interest, to give something back to a community he had once ravaged. She was proud of him for turning what had been a morbid desolation at the thought of his past life into something positive at last. Wasn't she then, really _glad_ he was in Bangor, glad for him, much more than relieved for her? Yes, she thought: it was much more that. 

She was pleased, and felt the warmth of that new––and, she thought, more accurate––analysis of her feelings radiate through her. She loved him; she was proud of him. She loved him even when he was morbid, and angry, and self-pitying, and she loved him when she saw how hard he tried not to fall into that dark, hopeless place. She saw, too, that it was because of her that he struggled to maintain control and hold on to a certain brightness of spirit. Still hard to believe, after so many long years of rejection, but it was true: it was because of her! Oh, he needed her, in another way altogether than he had always needed her, and he wanted her, yes, and he loved her, at last. Hard as it still was to believe. Oh, she loved him, too.

She fingered the necklace he had given her several days ago, a small token, he said, of his feelings for her. It was a family heirloom that had belonged to his mother and always was intended to be handed down to his sister. She knew well that a gift like that was no small token: it was an indication that all the old anguish and regret that had followed him through the years as he was forced to remember and relive the tragedy that had befallen his family, largely, he felt––oh, he took on too much of the blame!––due to his own actions, that it all had been laid to rest, overwhelmed by the new peace and love Julia had offered him. She studied the glinting diamonds, smiling contentedly. It was awfully grand for wearing around the house, still lazing about in her robe and slippers. It really was a beautiful piece, reflecting the sun in all colors, refracting light about the room. 

She remembered now––she remembered what they had fought about. And while he had thought it silly, it wasn't at all, not to her. Did he not understand? It wasn't so much that he said it––she realized, truly did, that he meant nothing by it––but did he not understand what it meant to her to hear it, after all they had been through?

Laying in bed the night before, limbs happily sprawled across each other's bodies, her head nestled comfortably on his chest, he whispered to her: "Oh, Julia. I wish I had known you when you were younger."

She made no response; she was quite shocked. Her stomach lurched when he said it. He could not have known. Her eyes stung, but he could not see them. She was frozen there, could not even pull away in the horror and disgust she felt. She shut her eyes tight. He would not feel a tear escape them. 

She said nothing. He said no more. He fell asleep long before she ever did. She couldn't stop her mind from reeling at the words––then from attacking herself, for taking it that way. 

It would be nothing unusual at all, she tried to convince herself, for any middle-aged lover to say just those words; anyone who had found such happiness at such a late age, that same giddy feeling one had first felt at age sixteen when a whole life lay endlessly ahead, but now coming with the sense that there would be too few years left, too few certainly to give all the love one had inside to another: anyone would say such a thing. It was a natural––and very human––regret to wish for more time, more, more. But she couldn't feel that way about it now, after watching him for years chasing after beautiful young girls, and not even to love them as they were but to turn them into a vision of another he had loved long ago––and even then, not very deeply, for how could he? He had known Josette a few weeks in Martinique, and a few weeks more back in Collinsport, mostly unhappy weeks; the rules of society then would hardly have permitted them to really know one another in any meaningful way––but he had carried this vision, this idea, for nearly two hundred years, and found it in every pretty young face he met. It was so wrong, so unlike real love––and he knew that now, she knew that he knew it; he had really come so far. She knew that he felt entirely differently about her, and valued what they shared more than he ever supposed he could. He didn't mean anything by it: only that, constantly aware of his new mortality, he wanted more of her, more, more than he knew he would ever be able to have.

Still, the thought got under her skin, and she couldn't help running over it and over it. He would, if he could, go back in time to find me at twenty and hope to win me when I was more beautiful, more innocent. If he could find that time band, he would leave me in an instant. Wouldn't he be surprised, too! She never could have wanted him except as they found each other; what unlikely set of circumstances must come together for the mere thought of love to form, and how much more unlikely still must it be for that love to really come to fruition, and last? To think of all they had been through to find their way to each other, and still some part of him wished he had known her when she was younger. A cruelly blind thing to say to her. He always had been, and now would he always be, in some ways, cruelly blind toward her? Could she stand his insensitive remarks, his thoughtless actions? Even as a fully human man, he was still a Collins. He was, some part of him would always feel, entitled, right, and unimpeachable. 

It was different, once he had become human again, though, she knew that, she fought with herself to remember that. He chased after young girls when he was a creature of the living dead: obsessed with youth, eternity, life, beauty. In that state, he had even recoiled from his Josette when he saw how ravaged she had been by her fall from Widow's Hill; he never would have turned away from her if he had seen her as the man he had been. Now, with her, Julia knew he was far from disgusted by her body, she could see and feel quite plainly that her lack of youth did not, now, make him any less eager: far from it. As a vampire, he had been aware of her attraction, and early on considered the notion of a romance between them absurd; later, as their relationship and trust deepened, he permitted but avoided her feelings. He never could have considered her, then. He explained all this to her, once, when he had first confessed his love to her. It was so hard for her to believe at first, but she knew what he said was perfectly true. As a vampire his only thought was of the love ideal, pure, beautiful; as a man he wanted only love, real love, what she offered him, real comfort, real security. He had said he knew he could find real love with no one else.

She couldn't help it, though: it hurt her still. The next morning, she had to tell him. And he laughed, he actually laughed, when she said it! Grudgingly she could understand his reaction; she was being insecure, and it angered her to admit it to herself; but again his damned insensitivity! His laughter hardly helped.

"Julia, dear Julia, you know that is not what I meant."

"You say that––but doesn't some part of you––"

"No. No," he said strongly, gravely now, trying to convey his seriousness. "Not any part of me." He held her gaze for a long moment, as if trying to bore the truth through her skull. Then he kissed her, just above the eyes he had been fixed upon so raptly, his breath hot against her skin, his lips soft, barely touching her, grazing her skin for a long moment. He knew too well, dangerously well, what an effect his slightest touch had on her. "Goodbye, my dear," lifting his head, he whispered into her hair, breathing in the smell of her. "I will see you tonight." He kissed her again, now on the lips, just a little less than chastely.

This time, she flinched, just slightly; she tightened the grip she had on his arms, almost to push him away, but stopped herself; with any luck, she thought, he would mistake this involuntary reaction for arousal. She pulled back and forced herself to look at him, and smile convincingly. His face was undisturbed; he appeared confident that he had shaken her strange ideas about his lust for youth. He had no doubts about her love, and desire, and support. 

"Goodbye, Barnabas. And good luck!" she said, with a cheerfulness she did not feel. With a last look as if trying to commit every contour of her face to memory, he was gone. She shut the door behind him, and leaned into it. She was glad he was gone! How could she feel this way, even for a moment, now?

She hated herself for it, as she recalled the scene now, finishing her coffee. If she was disgusted, it was with herself. It had been a passing thing. She did still nurture some insecurities where he was concerned, and it was understandable. He had hurt her deeply over the years, intentionally or not. It hadn't really been him; the real him was with her now; but in a way she always would hold him responsible. And she forgave him all, as she always did. Still, it was not wrong to be a little unsure, even now.

The clock struck eleven. When had she ever put off starting a day so long? Oh, get up! get up! she told herself; Do something useful with the day. She forced herself out of the cozy chair by the fireplace. She went through the motions of dressing and making up her face. To hell with youth, she thought, regarding herself in her dressing table mirror. To hell with beauty. There is plenty of life in this face, this body, yet.

She returned to the drawing room, and took up reading a medical journal. She tried to keep up with the advances in her field of research, although she had done very little with it in the past several years. Very little, excepting the specific treatment of Barnabas' case, of course, but she no longer felt the same ambitions that drove her to seek him out in the first place. She once thought her association with him would put her in a league with the handful of scientists who were household names, revered for their contribution to medicine and society at large. That was the furthest thing from her mind, now. For a long while, she had cared only for him, for his well-being and protection. The thought of publishing the results of her treatment had become unthinkable: at best, he would be an object of fascination to journalists and the public, would never again know the privacy and quiet he valued so highly; at worst, he would be punished for the horrible crimes he had committed in that state. She still thought only of his security. She cared very little, really, for her personal gain now. And after all, she discovered quite soon after meeting him, her real personal gain would be a life with him, and she seemed to have that. Or at least, they were finally on that path.

What a breakthrough it had been, though! It was a shame, in a way, to let the work go unnoticed. Perhaps she would arrange, in time, to publish her findings after both she and Barnabas were gone, after all his living relatives had died––then, perhaps, she would have her due. Then, she and her love would achieve a kind of immortality––she wondered vaguely if that would appeal to him. Some other time, she told herself, they ought to discuss it. Just now, she would resist bringing up anything that touched the subject. It was still too sore, for both of them.

She remembered well what a deep depression he had fallen into when they returned to the present for the last time, realizing that the curse he had been damned with for nearly two hundred years would dog him still. Within days, he had fully reverted. She still could not say for certain why, but Angelique's work to reverse it had not held when they returned. She did not witness his return to his vampire state, or know of it until several days later. She was ashamed, and deeply grieved, to think of it now, but she had retreated from his life for some time, so wounded by his confession of love for Angelique. It was only to collect some books she needed that she stopped by the Old House one afternoon, and did not find Barnabas anywhere––at first she was relieved, but a terrible thought occurred to her as she was about to close the door behind her. Hoping she was wrong, she crept into the basement, approached the coffin holding her breath, lifted the lid, and found him there, as if nothing had ever changed.

She almost cried at the sight, and at the knowledge of having abandoned him. She waited for him until he awoke that evening. They talked long into the night. It was as if nothing had ever changed between them, too: she forgave him all, and he forgave her all. By the end of the night, she felt closer to him, and more devoted, than she ever had. She was not at all sure the talk had helped him––oh, it must have, but he looked no less stricken by grief and self-loathing when she left him. She hoped the renewal of their friendship had been some comfort to him. He said it had. She could only trust him.

It was only when she had––so reluctantly––announced that she must return to Collinwood that he said, the softness in his voice stopping her: "There is one thing more I wanted to tell you."

"What is it, Barnabas?" Her eyes searched his, the ache and sorrow they had expressed all evening only deepening now. 

"I need you to know–" He shifted uncomfortably, turning away from her. "What I said about Angelique–"

"Oh." She turned away, too. "Listen––" She wanted to stop him, did not want to hear another word about it, but once started, he plowed ahead.

"When I reverted, my feelings about her did, too. It seemed to happen all at once, when I think about it, although she was far from foremost in my thoughts at that moment. I don't know if it was something she did intentionally or not, but I believe now that the fact of her curing me was what made me think I loved her."

"She did not _cure_ you," Julia could not stop herself from spitting out–– "She lifted the curse that she herself had put on you!"

"I know, Julia, I know. What I mean is– whether I was under a spell or simply blinded by gratitude, I felt that way _because_ she was– responsible for the curse ending. Do you see? And when that did not last, when I found myself just as cursed as I had been, I no longer felt any love for her."

"Because you blamed her for it then." Her face still turned away from him so he could not see, she rolled her eyes impatiently at this. Barnabas was still as fickle as he always had been.

"No: because it had not been real."

She turned to face him finally, and now it was his eyes that were searching hers, trying to make her understand. She thought she did understand what he meant. She was not at all sure this new version of the truth was any more true than the last. But she liked to think so.

"I see." She offered him a weak smile, which he accepted with no further protest.

He walked her to the door. They moved slowly, but silently. Neither really wanted to end the evening, which had been so healing for them both, but neither had anything left to say. 

"Do you want me to walk you back to Collinwood?" He offered awkwardly at the door.

"No, I'll manage," she shrugged him off. "It's a beautiful night for a walk on the grounds."

He shifted uncomfortably, not standing aside for her to leave. Clearly he still had something he wanted to say.

"What is it, Barnabas?"

He issued a long sigh. "Julia– I can't go on like this. I'm too tired. I've come too close." She recognized how true his words were, and the terror in his eyes that indicated his knowledge that, all the same, he would have to go on, forever. 

She squared her shoulders, resolved now to be strong for both of them. She was tired, too. She, too, had come too close, and yet failed. But she knew no other way than to offer Barnabas the strength he needed when his abandoned him. "Barnabas, I didn't want to say anything until I was sure. I know how close you've come––we've come––and the last thing I want now is to give you false hope. But despite everything that has gone wrong, I know I have made great progress over the years. I know I can help you––I'm so _close_ ––!"

He smiled thinly, indulging her only, she could see. That was just why she hadn't wanted to say a word until she had a chance to revisit her work, to test that the theory working itself out in the back of her mind now would hold. She knew caution was needed, now more than ever. But he looked so desperate, she couldn't bear it. She would see that it wasn't false hope. She would give him real hope, and make it come true. She just couldn't stand to see him like this. Where once he would go instinctively to anger, to violence, he now retreated into quiet depression. She would prefer his anger now: at least it would be some sign of life.

"You have always done your best for me, Julia," he allowed. "Good night." He finally did step aside, and with a rote gesture guided her out the door. 

"Good night, Barnabas," she smiled up at him, as broadly as she could manage––in that moment, tears were stinging at her eyes, too. She took his proffered arm and gave it a spontaneous light squeeze. "I'll see you soon."

She redoubled her efforts then, all but living in her laboratory at the Old House, working day and night to find the cure, the one that would last, that would finally and forever free him. She caught sleep where she could, never for much more than two hours at a time. Toward the end, she began sleeping at the Old House to save precious time, trying to avoid the looks and thinly veiled questions she received when she occasionally stole back to Collinwood to retrieve something she needed. Before long, she had begun the treatments again, and her results were uniformly encouraging. She tried to, for once, be as objective as she could with him, and he tried, for once, to keep his expectations in check and merely listen to her. Both knew real progress was being made, even if neither voiced it: she knew by her data, he by the sensations he felt in his own body. 

This time, she told herself, this time it would be different–

Her hand was at her neck, nervously twisting the delicate strand of gold-set jewels between her fingers. She had hardly realized she was doing it, and shook her head, clasping her hands in her lap and inwardly mocking herself for spending her whole morning lost in thought. Involuntarily, her hand rose again, her stomach sinking into a feeling like despair. Different, indeed; she thought it would be different. It hardly mattered what happened, with Barnabas, she thought bitterly, watching the lights from the necklace scatter across the wall in the midday sun––some things would never change. 

Once he had called her domineering, and she would rather think of herself that way, not as she now long knew herself to be: completely subservient to his will. She was humiliated to think so, and to know that if she could think well of herself at all it was completely by his grace. She would fight him when she believed he was wrong, but ultimately bend, every time –oh, she had never wanted to be his moral compass, but she had become relative in the extreme, all was relative only to his need, his desire. Even now. 

And if she did love him to the point of utter self-denial, how different was this from what it would have been like, if he had bitten her when she offered herself to him? She had repulsed him then; not even to save his life could he bring himself to touch her. That was the occasion of her greatest humiliation: but how exactly was this different; was this not just a gradual allowance of the same thing? Only now there would be the release of death, she thought. This way, at least, she would someday be free.

It astonished her now to think of it: _even to save his life_ how could she be willing to submit herself to his power? But how was this different, she asked herself again. He had no power over her––and yet, manifestly, he had. So few people knew, really knew, what lengths they might go to for love. "I would kill for you," a lover might say, in tones just as defiant as harmless. But she really knew. She had killed for him. She had killed a good friend, a good man, for him. Dave Woodard haunted her still, and always would. She had to live with that knowledge about herself. Barnabas could be absolved: he had been a vampire, a creature of uncontrollable monstrous urges. She was a free woman, and she had killed, not really to save herself, but to save him. Their love always would be marked by that.

The clock struck one. Clearly she was getting nothing done, and the day was getting away from her. She was lost in a terrible cycle of thoughts that would not let her be. If she had wanted the time to herself so badly, why was she now thinking only of him? She had scarcely done a thing all day, and yet she was exhausted. She was exhausting herself with thoughts, terrible dark thoughts that she scarcely remembered having once they had passed. Suddenly she felt strangely as if she were at war with herself, and if so, inwardly remarked there would be no chance at winning. Suddenly she felt strangely as if she were in the grip of an important decision.

There was no decision to make, she assured herself. She was here, simply here, where she had long wanted to be. Nothing was perfect with Barnabas; old wounds had healed, but the scars were still visible, and she expected they always would be. Perhaps she would go so far as to say she always wanted them to be––some tangible reminder of what they had survived, together, and what was worth protecting. She had not ever taken the easy path in life, had never wanted the easy reward. Maybe it was asinine of her, but she would gladly suffer and endure for the rewards she did get.

Just to have seen that look of pure and completely unwonted exhilaration on his face, she would gladly have given a year of her life. It was all the reward she needed for every effort and sacrifice she had made for him to be cured to see him flitting about with the energy of a young man as she tried to remain serious and complete her notes downstairs in the laboratory. She warned him to be cautious, to perhaps wait out one more sunrise beside his coffin; but she would not seriously try to undermine his enthusiasm––how could she? With that smile he had only occasionally hinted at in the years she had known him now positively beaming across his face?

He had left for a few minutes, but came back to the laboratory minutes before sunrise, tugging at her sleeves like a child on Christmas morning, near pleading with her to come up and usher in the day with him. Feigning annoyance but truly concerned about his safety, she followed him back upstairs, and saw he had prepared a tray of coffee and a light breakfast––not allowing her time to argue, he was already on his way outside with it, her close on his heels.

"I don't know if caffeine is a good idea right now, Barnabas, I need to take your vitals––are you trying to get your heart rate up?"

"That's the general idea," he grinned, setting the tray down on the porch. "Coffee, the sunrise, and you."

She was silenced by this; her mouth must have been gaping slightly, as he returned her gaze with a look of sheer amusement. He clearly enjoyed her confusion as much as anything else, and seemed about to go on teasing her when a ray of light caught his eye, and he turned to meet it.

He stood there for long moments, reveling in the sensation of the sun on his skin, then, unable to restrain himself, moved slowly forward, arms raised to it as if in worship. She kept back, let him enjoy his moment alone, a smile of mixed pride and adoration slowly spreading across her face. Finally, with a triumphant whoop, he turned back to face her, first standing in place, beaming that enigmatic smile she had never seen before, then slowly approaching her, closing the distance between them again. His face looked younger, she noticed, softer already, lines gone, the dark circles under his eyes all but vanished. 

"Julia," he breathed her name. He took her hands in his, and held them tightly to his chest. She was still smiling––she could not help it––but a veil of complete bewilderment had darkened her face. Aloud, he wondered, "Have you always looked at me with those eyes?" At this, her eyebrows knit in consternation. Before she could think of a thing to say, he went on: "I feel like I'm looking at you with wholly new eyes."

"Barnabas?" She looked up at him questioningly.

"Come," he merely smiled, looking somewhat bemused by her confusion. He dropped one of her hands, and with the other led her away from the relative shade of the porch out into the direct sunlight.

When he chose to stop, she said, "Are you feeling all right, Barnabas? I'm concerned about you doing too much, too soon. We should go back in––I do need to take your vitals, run some tests––"

"I feel perfectly fine––I feel perfect!" Throwing up his hands in uncontrollable joy and looking up at the sun again, he said, "I feel human. Really human––it feels different from all the other times I've come so close. That _we've_ come so close," he corrected himself, his tone softening. "You don't need to take my vitals. This is real. This will last." He looked at her so seriously now as he said this, his voice barely above a whisper, low and warm.

"Even so, I need to make sure there are no adverse reactions––" She tried to be insistent, but she was disarmed, and still confused, by his manner.

"I know everything I need to know. I know how I feel, Julia. You have cured me. You have made me a new man. You have done so much for me, Julia, and I owe you so much. I owe you everything."

"Barnabas––" She shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say, unable to meet his gaze. "You owe me nothing. Everything I've done, I've done out of––"

"Love," he supplied.

She gasped involuntarily at his simple use of the word, her eyes going wide. Regaining her composure, she said quietly, "I wasn't going to say that."

"Perhaps not. But it is true, isn't it? It has been a long while since you have had a purely medical interest in me."

She could not stand the effect his words had on her––she turned her back on him, stepping away a few paces, needing to put some distance between them to think clearly. She was so exhausted, by the strain of her work, by the long history between them, the ancient hurts, the constant rejection, everything that had been forgiven, of course, always forgiven, but never quite forgotten. It hadn't made a bit of difference in their friendship. But coldly, guarding herself, she realized it would make a great deal of difference if––but what _was_ he doing now?

"Julia," he said gently, almost timidly, approaching her but careful to allow her some space––"I don't expect the world in one day, you've already given me more than I deserve, I cannot ask you to give any more of yourself; but please, don't ever turn away from me. It's the one thing I couldn't bear."

"The one thing I can't bear," she said in a measured, deliberate tone, slowly turning to face him again, looking at him levelly––"and I mean this, Barnabas– is some vague or fleeting flirtation from you."

He shook his head earnestly. "I would never––" Her archly raised eyebrows stopped him. "No, I would never do that, _now_."

"You don't owe me anything, Barnabas," she said firmly.

"All right, I don't owe you. That changes nothing." She looked uncertain, but receptive, so he went on. "You asked me not to be vague; I will honor your request. I am trying to tell you that, monstrously late, perhaps too late, I realize that I love you. That I feel at last I can return the love I know you felt for me once, and hope you still do, or could regain. And––" he spoke quickly, not allowing her time to interject––"you asked that I not trouble you with a fleeting feeling. I know what makes you say that; you have witnessed my fickle behavior; I have even taken advantage of your feelings in order to manipulate you. I do not expect to convince you in a day. I am fully responsible for the things I've done. But I never could have loved you as I was. It is only now, fully human, that I know I can give you all you deserve. I felt myself change as we got closer and closer to the cure this time. I felt myself slowly becoming my true self again, and slowly recognizing my true feelings––for you. Oh, Julia––can you ever trust me? Can you ever love me?"

She found she did not know what to say. For years she had dreamed of this moment––god help her, she should not have, but she had––and now she was entirely at a loss.

His face fell. "Julia––do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No––no, I don't want that," she said quickly, trying to assure him of that at least.

"I must admit I am surprised––at one time I know you cared for me––was I foolish to think you still might? Oh, I do know what I've put you through. Is it too late?"

"Oh, Barnabas, I––" she struggled to find just the right words, but she was worn out. The elation of seeing him cured had sapped the last bit of energy from her; this confession of love was more than she expected, and more than she could handle now. 

"You're exhausted, Julia––I am sorry. I don't mean to push you. I was only too excited by all this––and so very happy. There is nothing you need answer now. Why don't you go back to Collinwood and rest––and let me take you out tonight. We'll talk it all over."

"All right," she smiled weakly, and let him steer her back. She _was_ exhausted. She had no energy left to think through what she wanted to say, much less voice it. He seemed undisturbed by her silence, her inability to simply throw herself into his arms. But feeling that she owed him something after all, some sign, she gently slipped her arm through is, her hand resting on his forearm. She leaned into his body slightly. He now felt he had the energy of ten men, and with that, with the strength she had given him, he all but carried her home.

She remembered these happy moments now, still feeling the warmth of his body, and his love for her, flow through her as it had that day. By the time they reached Collinwood, she was sure of him. That night, they did talk about everything, finally taking down the walls they had spent years putting up, the walls they had each hid behind even as they had grown closer and closer as friends, allowing themselves to be completely vulnerable to the other as they had never done before with anyone in their pasts. This, she thought again, was reward enough for every dark moment she had endured.

The day had escaped her, and what did it matter––she had a day to herself, and she deserved to spend it as she wished. By nature she preferred to be useful, busy at all times, but if for a change she wanted to simply luxuriate in the sensation of loving and being loved, who could reproach her for it? She allowed her mind to wander to the first kiss they had shared after he walked her to the front doors of Collinwood. For weeks she had practically lived at the Old House, but now in the name of gallantry she was reinstalled at Collinwood and happy to play along with the game. He had been so shy with her at first. She half expected him to merely kiss her hand at parting, or perhaps shrink away from any physical contact at all. But he did come around to her, slowly, seriously, stopping himself more than once to make some comment of a general and insignificant nature to draw the moment out, merely to drive her insane, she thought, until finally he dared meet her lips, one hand gently cupping her chin––and then, just as quickly it was over, and just as slowly he withdrew, never dropping his eyes from her and she knew it would, it would drive her insane. They could each barely whisper "good night."

And so it went on for some time, these breathless kisses, gradually deepening; he seemed intent to court her properly, if expeditiously––not a night went by without him coming to call for her at Collinwood. If she thought they had been talking behind her back before!

But it was not all breathless kisses, she reminded herself, coiling the strands of the necklace so tightly around her index finger she had almost cut off circulation before she realized it. There were dark days in the beginning too, she could not forget, and that chilly feeling of foreboding washed over her as she tried to concentrate on the dancing light cast by the necklace. The beautiful necklace Barnabas gave her––out of love––she tried to hold on to this thought. But more present to her now was the thought of Barnabas alone, staring into the fire at the Old House; he had forgotten their date, and a stupid thing it was, as she knew where to find him and, though she enjoyed the game, wasn't enough of the coquette really to stay away. There he was, too lost in his own misery and regret about the past to remember her, and the possibility of a future she might mean. He was disconsolate then, and she caught him in these moods frequently for long weeks. His first thought upon being cured was pure unfiltered joy; his second thought was of her; but his third and lasting thought was of all the evil he had committed, and how impossible it would be to ever atone for it. He gave up; he withdrew. There were nights when she could not get through to him at all. There were nights when she gave up trying.

This Barnabas, as real to her as the one who carefully meted out his kisses for the maximum romantic impact, was intractable and unreachable. This Barnabas had not really ceased to be, despite his good intentions and his hopeful trip to Bangor. This Barnabas would never accept the absolution that humanity regained did promise. He would never allow her to really be a source of comfort or solace to him, only a worthy distraction. He would never really know peace, as nothing could really reverse the dark center that had been his soul longer than he had ever been alive––longer than he had ever had a right to live. And now he would have to live with that. He tormented himself. And some part of him, she secretly thought, blamed her for it. She gave him back his humanity and all that came with it. She wondered now hopelessly if they could ever find their way to the light, together, and not merely as a pleasant interlude.

The clock struck three. She did not want to move now, was not even tempted; she only wanted desperately to regain some clarity, some sense of the rightness of the path her life was on; it had seemed so right, such a short time ago. These moods of Barnabas' always did break, and they were becoming rarer. And that was due to her, too, wasn't it? 

She tried to refocus on that night she felt he had recommitted himself to life, and to her, to remember that it had been so hard for him to do, but he did try. He had taken her out to dinner, and she could feel his coldness, she could see that his heart wasn't really in it, his eyes not really set on her. She had resigned herself to another night of his utter estrangement, and her slow withdrawal. But as the car approached the estate, he said quietly, "I don't think I'm ready to take you back to Collinwood just yet."

Everything that passed before had vanished from her mind. She would always forgive him. She would always look for the opening to draw him back to her. She locked on his eyes, smiling convincingly. "Do you feel like a walk?"

It was a breezy, cool night, and the estate was always a lovely setting for a walk, setting out in any direction. They walked aimlessly for a long time, arm in arm, this time now he seeming to draw on her strength to go on. They walked in silence, but an increasingly amiable silence. When they reached a clearing and Julia made to sit on a rock, leading him willingly beside her, she no longer felt despair in him, no detachment, but still a certain unshakable gloom. 

Clearly he wanted to say something to her, but it took him some time to find the words. She waited patiently, her head perched comfortably on his shoulder, her arm curled around his. Finally, he ventured, "I know I've been terrible to be with, Julia."

"No, you haven't." She shook her head gently against his shoulder; tightened her grip around his arm.

"How can you go on with me? I really wonder." 

"You forget"––she tried to put it across lightly––"I've put up with much worse."

He smiled gently, trying to respond in kind, but a dark twist took over his smile as he replied softly, "No, I never can forget that."

"Barnabas–" She disentangled her arm from his to caress his back. She hated that she never knew what to say to him when he went into these moods. And hating herself for it did not help matters.

He responded to her touch, all the same, reaching for her other hand and holding it in both of his. "Julia, you are the one bright spot in my life. I don't want to drag you into the dark with me."

She shook her head fiercely. "That will not happen."

"You can't know that. You don't know how bad it can get."

"After all we've been through? You really don't think so?"

"I just know that now that we've come this far, I could not stand to lose you. If I'd thought it through––" He took a long breath. "Maybe I never should have started this."

"Do you really mean that?" She knew he did, and though she knew he said it from an instinct to protect her, it hurt her deeply.

"I feel responsible in a way I never imagined I could––responsible for you. I couldn't bear to hurt you. And I couldn't bear to be hurt by you. It seems I have as much capacity for destruction now as I ever did."

"Barnabas––that's love!" She sat up suddenly to face him, almost exasperated. "You can't have it if you don't take your chances."

"Funny," he smiled thinly, in spite of himself. "I thought love was the great obsession of my life. But I never knew what it was until now."

"Just don't turn away from me. That's the only real danger we face. Nothing can come between us, no matter what happens, as long as we don't turn away from each other."

She forced him to look at her, desperate to see that he understood. Satisfied that he did, she collapsed into his arms, holding him tightly. He returned the embrace, stroking her hair, burying his face in her neck.

"You feel better already, don't you?" she asked quietly, after they had held one another for some time. Her lips brushed his cheekbone gently, stretching to expose more of her neck to him.

"Completely." She felt his lips tighten into a smile against her skin.

"See how much nicer it is, when we turn toward each other?"

"Mmhmm," he breathed into her neck.

"You know," she mused, pulling away only slightly, her eyes teasing him, "you've been rather shy with me."

"Shy?" He asked, incredulous.

"Almost––chaste!" She flashed him a flirtatious smile.

He became suddenly serious, earnest, shaking his head slightly. "I don't want to presume anything with you, Julia." 

"If you don't presume something, you'll never get anywhere," she persisted. 

"Ah, you've never been romanced by a true gentleman before."

She thought, there's a limit to the appeal in that. She said, "That's quite possible."

"And I, perhaps, have never romanced a real woman."

She thought, I know you haven't. She said, "A new experience for us both, then."

"I'm still getting used to you, Julia, after all these years––" He returned his attentions to her neck, but she, having had quite enough anticipation, seized his head between both hands and took the kiss she had been waiting these days, weeks––years!––for, the mad, passionate, probing kiss that left him shocked and short of breath. "Julia––" he gasped when she finally released him. "I don't think I want to take you back to Collinwood at all."

"No?" she teased him, leaning in to brush her lips past his again, barely touching, her smile grazing his skin.

"No," he said softly, his lips reaching for hers. "Do you mind?"

"No," she said, pulling away and looking him square in the eye, feigning seriousness. "Only promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Don't be a gentleman with me now."

And he had not been, she thought now, alone in the Old House, preoccupied with the thought of loving him––he had not been too much of a gentleman. He had been, if she was honest with herself, just the right balance between tender and savage, between gentleman and wild creature, that she had always imagined he would be. But in his every touch, she felt his love and admiration. She felt utterly safe with him, utterly beloved, utterly desired.

They had not been without their misunderstandings and hurts in the bedroom, either, she had to admit to herself, as she wound her necklace around her fingers, noticing vaguely that she had begun to rub the skin of her neck raw. They could not heal one another entirely, nor connect completely. Just last night, it became present to her again, he had injured her terribly with his thoughtless words. And she, too, had hurt him––the night he had given her this necklace, she remembered bitterly, looking down at the beautiful jewels, she had managed to ruin what had been a lovely night, to bring him lower than he had been in days. Why had she––? She still had a hard time understanding herself. She supposed he still thought of it every time he looked at her. It would be another of the painful dark memories they shared, willfully suppressed, forgiven, yes, forgiven, but always conscious of.

He presented her with the necklace in one of his particularly romantic moods, which pleased her just as much to see him taken by as to realize it was directed at herself––that, perhaps, would always surprise her, a lovely surprise. He put the necklace on her, taking his time with the clasp, slowly running his hands across her shoulders and down the length of her arms, barely grazing her breasts as his hands passed, brushing the curves of her sides where it tickled, finally taking her hands in each of his and hugging her across the front of her body. His lips slowly explored every inch of her exposed neck, then as he brushed aside the strap of her dress worked across her angular bare shoulder. She relaxed into his embrace, giving him more access to her neck, which he avidly accepted. His teeth brushed her skin. She sighed happily. How often she had fantasized about his fangs in her neck, slowly, gently sinking into her skin, no pain, just a dull pressure, and a feeling of relief, of calm, as the blood rushed forth into his hungry mouth, sating his need–

Before she knew it his adept fingers had undressed her completely, completely but for the necklace he now stood back to admire on her slim naked frame. Those eyes regarded her with the desire of a man, entirely a man, not a hint of the need of a vampire––a man she had in part created, restored to his true self, brought to her. It was the man she wanted. Only the man: this man. She moved toward him, returning his smile, and together they moved toward the bed.

She was lost in the feeling of loving him and being loved by him, every moment a beautiful blur, forgetting her thoughts, her self, everything. It was so difficult for her, by nature so tightly wound, so tied up inside herself, so distant, to let herself go, but it happened freely with him, had from the beginning. That night, she was not thinking of what she was doing, what she was saying. He was still fixated on the sight of those jewels adorning the body under his hands, the body in pleasure, the sight of it equally a pleasure to him. He fingered the jewels, caressing her neck, as she lost herself in the moment, casting reflecting light about the room and on her face and body. "Barnabas," she whispered, "Please, please–"

"What, my darling?" He leaned in close, teasing her. "What can I do for you, my love?"

Without thinking, unable to articulate her desires, she took his two hands that were lightly caressing her clavicle and shoulder blades, and moved them higher up her neck. She positioned them on either side of her neck, thumbs meeting in the center. Slowly she pushed on his hands on her neck. She wanted him to press harder. She wanted him to choke her.

It took a long moment for her actions to register with him, and another long moment to decide what to do. Vaguely she saw the change cross his face, from eagerness to please her, to confusion, to uncertainty, to something like horror and revulsion. He hesitated, and finally pulled away from her, unable to go on. He threw his feet over the side of the bed, and sat facing away from her, his head in his hands.

Her stomach lurched. She couldn't understand what she had done, or why. "Barnabas," she groaned in torment, reaching for him, desperate to be close to him, but terrified he would shrink from her. Her fingers grasped at his arm gently, resting there timidly, afraid to venture further.

"You see me as a monster." It wasn't a question. His voice sounded cold, miles away, barely above a whisper.

"No–– _no_!" she said emphatically, close to tears. She whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me," he said, but his voice was ice, his body stone. She left him melting away from her, retreating into himself. He groaned, "What have I done to you?" He had retreated into his own self-loathing. 

"No, Barnabas––you didn't––please, don't––" She was desperate; she didn't know what to say; how could he think––What had she done?

"I have poisoned your mind. I was cruel to you, Julia, violently cruel––I made you want me that way."

"No, please–" She must find some way to explain herself to him. She did not even understand, but she must make him understand. "I loved you when you were a vampire, it's true, I loved you despite––" she couldn't say it: despite your cruelty? despite your choking me to within an inch of my life?––"but never _because_ of it."

"I have tried to kill you––I can't ever forget that. Julia," he said, anguished but firmly, clearly trying to get through to her, too, "I have put my hands around your neck and squeezed until there was almost no life left in your body. I did that to you. It was not done out of love."

"I know, Barnabas, I'm sorry, I'm sorry–"

"Don't be sorry." He faced her again, looking deeply into her eyes, trying to communicate something he could not say out loud, to recement the bond between them, assure her this was nothing, so long as she understood. "Don't be sorry. Let's not do this. Look at us, you there hating yourself, me here hating myself. Come," he said, enveloping his arms around her, which she readily collapsed into. 

"Barnabas," she breathed into his neck, unable to let it go, "I don't know what came over me. That's not the way I feel at all. That's not what I want at all."

"It's all right," he sighed, gently stroking her back and her hair.

She knew he would sooner let the issue drop, but what happened had so disturbed her that she could not. He must understand. "I love what we have together. Please believe I wouldn't change a thing. This is what I want. You and me, here, like this."

She made a silent promise to herself, then, remembering this clear-minded as she hadn't felt all day, that this must always be the way between them: they would always have dark and uncertain moments, their past guaranteed that; and both were by nature inclined more to anger or withdrawal than comfort and conciliation. But they must fight it, and always fight for each other, for what they shared––she told herself it, she repeated it, she tried to remember–

The clock struck five. Get a hold of yourself, she thought. Barnabas will be home soon. Barnabas will be home soon! She tried to occupy her mind with mundane tasks. She cleaned up her work, still laying out uselessly before her. Her work, her important, utterly neglected work, she thought bitterly. No, no––she fought herself––why was she being so emotional about it? She could get back to her work any time she wanted; Barnabas would want it; he would be busy himself now. Stop it. She turned her back on the stack of journals, her reports, her notes.

But perhaps she was wrong. Everything had been fine when her work had been her love. Perhaps not everyone is meant to love, she thought. He did not really need her anymore. Suddenly it seemed so clear to her: she should go back now. She should publish her work, the rest of it be damned. The one important thing she had done in her life, how could she let it all go to waste?

She forced herself out of the drawing room, away from these thoughts. She walked upstairs. Perhaps what they needed was to go out tonight, a change of pace, a change of scene. He might be tired when he returned home; she hoped not. She needed desperately to get out of the Old House. She went to her closet to select the right thing to wear. Something to lift her spirits somehow. Something to complement the beautiful necklace she wore to symbolize their love. She studied herself in the mirror, fixated on the necklace. What did she have that could possibly do it justice?

As she considered each garment she realized everything she kept at the Old House seemed to carry some significance, some association with her life with Barnabas: the suit she wore when they announced their feelings for each other to everyone present at Collinwood, when the family acted as if it were not news, and they both felt silly to have presented it so formally, but delighted by the reaction it drew; the skirt and sweater she wore the day he crept into the drawing room without her noticing and said so fervently, "my god I love you," as if the thought had come to him like a lightning bolt, new and surprising, and it always did sound like the first time when he said it; the blouse she wore the first and only time he ventured the word marriage, and she laughed, she didn't know why, she was taken aback and made uncomfortable but not really amused, it just came out, and she saw him mask how it had wounded him and knew then he would never say it again. Piece by piece, garment by garment, she relived these moments. One by one, she was placing each in a suitcase. 

She had hardly realized she was doing it. Her entire wardrobe, such as it was, was now packed. When she saw, truly saw what she had done, she gasped in shock. She slumped down on the bed, reeling. She must leave, she thought. But why, why? She shook her head. She didn't understand herself. She had what she had wanted for so long––why would she leave now? Save yourself, Julia, she heard herself telling herself. She wondered if she was going mad; she was not saying this! And yet– Save yourself, she thought. He does not love you.

All at once it hit her, a crushing clarity: she remembered what he said about Angelique. He believed he loved Angelique when she had cured him. The feeling of love vanished the moment the curse came back. She understood with absolute certainty now that he did not love her any more than he loved Angelique. As surely as he had always loathed that witch, he had always been repulsed by the thought of her. She had not meant to bewitch him, did not know how, but clearly the act of curing him had accomplished exactly that. How could she go on with him that way? How could she love a man who in his true heart could never love her back? This she could not endure.

She closed the latch on the suitcase, and she felt relieved––that same relief she had felt that morning when he left! Relief at going. Relief at being gone.

She had to leave quickly. He would be home at any minute. She could never explain this to him. He would try to stop her. She had to go––He wouldn't understand! He couldn't; he was under a terrible kind of a spell. To save herself, and him, she had to go. 

She heard the door open and close. She heard footsteps in the foyer approach the staircase, and then stop. I'm too late! she thought. But I must get out still. He was listening for her there, trying to determine where she was. She wished he had come back to an empty house.

"Julia?" he called. "Where are you?"

Taking a deep breath, clutching the suitcase at her side, Julia slowly descended the staircase. She knew what she had to do; she was resolved. She watched his instinctive smile at first seeing her fall into doubt and then panic as he noticed the bag.

"Where are you going?" He asked darkly, nervous.

"I have to go, Barnabas," she said simply.

"Is there some emergency? Back at Collinwood? At Wyndcliffe?" 

She shook her head.

"With your family?"

"I only have to go, Barnabas."

"Away from me, you mean," he said, stricken, understanding and yet not understanding. 

"Yes."

"Why, Julia? What is this––what have I––"

"Please, don't try to stop me," she said. She had made it to the door. Her hand was on the knob. He had been too dumbfounded to prevent her. Now it was almost too late.

"If you need some time on your own, I understand completely, Julia, we can talk everything over when you're feeling well–"

"I feel fine, Barnabas," she said coolly, turning to face him, but not looking him in the eye.

"Julia, you're bleeding!" He reached out for her, and she saw that her skin was indeed broken in several places where she had been rubbing the necklace all day. His fingertips gently brushed the soft skin just below the cuts.

"Barnabas," she said, wincing at his touch, "Please don't make this harder than it has to be. Please, let me go."

"I don't understand this. You can't just leave, after everything we've––what do you mean, let you go?"

"You don't need me anymore."

"Don't you think I should be the judge of that? Julia, I do need you, in so many ways."

"We're not good for each other."

"What is this?" Anger mixed with fear clouded his reaction for the first time. "What is this? These are not your words!"

"I know we can never be happy together."

He approached her slowly, his expression pleading. "I know that I will not be happy apart from you. Will you?"

She regarded him for a long moment. She tried to see him, really see him, but she could not break through. He was not even there to her anymore; then man she loved did not exist. Her hand went instinctively to her neck. She clutched the suitcase in the other hand more tightly to steel herself. And without another word, she walked out.

"No!" Barnabas yelled, pounding the inside of the door with both fists after it shut behind her, but making no effort to follow or stop her. He seized the foyer table and overturned it in rage. How could she, how could she? He thought. After all she had said about not turning away from each other– Now she has. She has left me without even explaining why.

He stormed into the drawing room, almost toppling the candelabra as he passed. Let it burn, he thought. It might as well all burn! He kicked the chair he had long regarded as hers––childishly, he kicked it and kicked it again. He wanted it out of his sight. He couldn't bear to see it empty, there, mocking him.

With a labored effort, he stopped himself. He closed his eyes. He tried to breathe deeply. Perhaps this is why she is leaving. She knows what a monster you are still.

No. No. He didn't understand it. She would not have left, now, not after all they had been through. He didn't deserve her devotion, he never had deserved it, but still he had long had it––why, when they were stronger than ever, would she turn away from him now? How could she do it? How could she?

He pulled from his coat pocket a small black velvet box, cringing at the sight of it. To torture himself, he must look. This he deserved, this particular torture. He opened the box, and regarded the diamond ring it contained. Part of his business in Bangor had been finding just the right one––something new, something meant only for Julia, not some relic of his past but a ring to symbolize the love of his present, his future, his always. He had scoured the town until he found the ring that suited her perfectly, his Julia: simple, elegant, beautiful, unassuming. She had laughed once when he mentioned marriage––he thought it was borne of nervousness, but now he knew the truth. She could not bear the thought of a future with him. Imagine her reaction if she'd seen this.

I don't believe it, he thought. What didn't he believe––that she had left him, or that he ever thought she could love him? Aloud, he screamed, throwing the ring across the room bitterly, "I don't believe it!"

Faintly at first, then unmistakably, he heard the laughter of a woman, the smug, self-satisfied cackle that could only be––

"Angelique!" he raged. He stormed around the room, looking for some sign of her. There was nothing, only the sound of her deranged giggling. "Show yourself!" he demanded.

"Not this time, Barnabas. There was no need to. Julia was very easy, as it turned out."

"Don't you dare speak of her!" He looked around wildly, screaming at thin air.

"She couldn't have loved you very much Barnabas, to give in that easily."

"What did you do to her?" he snarled.

"Nothing, really, Barnabas. Just made her ask herself some very important questions. It's only natural for a woman to have doubts, Barnabas, especially knowing you as well as she does. What's truly remarkable is that I only laid the groundwork! I was impressed by how many reasons to leave you she came up with all on her own!"

"You're lying! But it doesn't matter." He gathered up his coat and his cane. Suddenly everything made sense, all of her strange behavior over the last several days, her twisted words. He must find her. He could only imagine what Angelique would do to her now.

"You won't find her, Barnabas. She doesn't want to be found."

He tried not to let on how deeply chilled he was by her words. He did not wish to engage her any longer, but he couldn't help himself. Again he asked, "What did you do to her?"

"I'm rather proud of that!" She laughed again. "I used you both against yourselves, Barnabas. Your necklace. Her parlor trick. I hypnotized her!" She erupted in a peal of evil laughter. "But there's a funny thing about hypnosis, Barnabas. The truth comes out."

"She believes whatever lies you put in her mind! But I will find her, Angelique. I will get her back. Because I love her, Angelique! More than you could ever dream of, much less feel."

"And does she love you?" her disembodied voice asked haughtily.

"More than you could ever understand."

"Then you will not find her. I warned you about that, Barnabas. You will never be free of me, never."

"You're wrong, Angelique! Julia freed me from your curse. As I will free her from what you've done to her."

"No, Barnabas. Julia did cure you of your vampirism. There is nothing I can do about that. But the rest of my curse stands, Barnabas! I told you whoever loves you will die. Try and find your precious Julia now, Barnabas. Just try!" 

He ran out of the house. He couldn't stand to hear another word. Her crazed laughter followed him out and into the woods, dying away as he ran further along the path. He could not think whether Angelique's threat was true or not. He could only think of finding Julia; he must find her, and take her, any way he could, far away from here. If he could find her, he knew he could fix things. He trusted, too, that Julia was fighting it, as well as she could. He would lift the spell she was under, and make everything right between them. He would make up for everything that had happened. He would give her a lifetime of happiness, a long lifetime to share the love they felt for one another, that surely was much stronger than anything or anyone that might try to come between them. He knew just what he would do, just how things would be, if he could find her. If he could only find her–


End file.
